Page 24 of Jenna's Protector

It’s a superpower.

“Are you okay?” Carter looks at me with concern.

Before I can answer, his phone buzzes. The sudden noise makes me flinch. He glances at the screen, his expression darkening.

“I have to take this,” he says, stepping away.

As Carter talks in hushed tones, my gaze is drawn back to the sketch. Lucian’s face stares back at me, every detail hauntingly accurate.

But it’s not just his face that I remember.

In my mind’s eye, I see a flood of images—the bare hallways of the facility, the faces of the other girls, the lavish parties where we were paraded like prized cattle.

I can draw them all in excruciating detail. I’ve drawn them many times before.

“That was the station. Another girl has gone missing.” Carter returns, his jaw set in a grim line.

The air rushes out of my lungs. Joe pales, his pencil slipping from his fingers.

“How old?” I manage to ask, dreading the answer.

“Seventeen,” Carter says, his voice tight. “Just like you were.”

EIGHT

Carter

“We can resume in the morning,”Joe says, packing up his sketchpad. The rustle of paper breaks the silence.

Jenna’s whispered “Thank you” is barely audible, but the relief in her sigh speaks volumes. As Joe’s footsteps fade down the hallway, the silence settles back in, thick and palpable.

The dim light of my office casts soft shadows across Jenna’s face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbones and the gentle slope of her nose. My breath catches in my throat. Even exhausted and emotionally drained, she’s breathtakingly beautiful.

I clear my throat, searching for words to bridge the gap between us.

“You did great today. I know it wasn’t easy.” The softness in my voice surprises me, laced with an admiration I can’t hide.

“Thanks. I just need a moment.” Jenna’s tired smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Of course.” The words hang heavily between us.

My fingers itch to reach out and offer comfort, but I hold back. I want to know her, really know her—not as a witness or a barista, but as Jenna.

She shifts in her chair, and I fight the irrational fear that she’ll bolt at any moment.

What makes her laugh?

What are her dreams?

What would it feel like to hold her and chase away the shadows in her eyes?

But I can’t ask those questions. Not like this.

Instead, I stand, moving toward the small mini fridge in the corner.

“Can I get you some water? Or maybe some coffee?” I cringe internally at the offer of coffee to a master barista.

“Water would be great, thanks.” Jenna’s soft laugh eases some of the tension.

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